Poetry: The Medicine Men of Potawatomi Park

Hand me the keys and let’s get this over with.
The day is beginning to spy on us
and I can’t take you seriously
with that sheet over your head.

These mountains may move men,
while the ocean tides and moon, women,
but all that moves for me
is the speed of this blackness we’re positioned over.

Sound the sirens and call the armies to stand beside us,
for that is the only way we can escape
this suburban life we’ve drawn for ourselves.
Buy another product
and I’ll blow your head off.
This room is as useless as the next,
for humans, even at the outskirts of creation
will never achieve our aim,
will never haunt our younger selves until it’s too late.

So, drink up!
For it is as we were told
and maybe they were right about something after all.
Drink up!
For our tigers are no stronger than theirs and
our wills are no weaker.
And when the bottle lay, stilled,
let us climb inside
and hope to god and all that is holy
that someone finds us, after all.